The air beneath the ancient tree was heavier now—thicker than the mist, deeper than silence.
Elian stood frozen, his eyes locked on the bark that bore the mark—the same one etched across his chest like a wound that refused to heal. The wind stirred the moss again, revealing more of the spiral-crescent symbol, as if the forest itself wished to be remembered.
Cira remained still beside him, her breath shallow.
The Guide knelt at the base of the tree, tracing a line in the dirt with a bone-carved stick, murmuring something in a language neither of them recognized. The wind did not move here. Not anymore.
Elian took a step forward—but the moment his palm brushed the trunk, his mark flared, casting a pale, silver light through his shirt. He clenched his teeth, breath catching as pain licked across his chest.
"Elian?" Cira reached for him instinctively.
But he had already gone still—too still.
A vision surged.
He was standing in the snow again.
Not as a child this time… but older. A teenager. Alone.
The world around him was distorted—like looking through frozen glass. A voice echoed in the cold, one he didn't recognize, yet it curled under his skin like smoke:
"He must not remember. Not until it is too late."
The golden-eyed figure stood just behind the voice. Smiling again.
And then—Cira's hand touched his shoulder, dragging him back.
"Elian—look at me!" Her voice was sharp, urgent.
He blinked. The light from his mark had faded, but his skin was slick with sweat. The Guide stood silently behind Cira, unreadable.
"What did you see?" she whispered.
He shook his head. "Someone… speaking. A memory being buried. It wasn't my choice."
His voice cracked. "Someone else sealed it in me."
The Guide finally spoke.
"There was once a pact—older than either of you. A memory too dangerous to hold in a single soul. So it was divided. One half locked within Elian…"
Their gaze shifted to Cira.
"…and the other half scattered into the soul of someone not yet born."
Cira stepped back slowly, hands trembling. "Me."
"You were always meant to meet," the Guide said softly. "Not by fate. Not by love. But by the memory's design."
Elian looked at her, guilt flickering across his face. "So you were dragged into this because of me?"
Cira didn't answer immediately. She stepped toward the tree again, fingers hovering above the bark.
"I saw this tree when I was young. I told no one. But it pulled at me. I thought… maybe it was mine."
She looked over her shoulder at Elian.
"Maybe it was ours."
For a moment, the tension cracked. Their eyes held—charged, uncertain, aching with questions neither had answers to.
And just then—
A rustle.
The tree's roots trembled.
A low hum rose from deep within the earth—like the forest exhaling after a long sleep. Lumen growled, fur lifting.
The Guide's expression darkened.
"We've awakened something."
Cira turned toward them. "What do you mean?"
But before an answer could come—the birds fell silent.
No rustling leaves.
No wind.
Just the tree's faint glow.
And a whisper on the edge of the clearing:
"He remembers…"
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A whisper on the edge of the clearing:
"He remembers…"
Elian's eyes snapped toward the voice. But no one was there.
Only trees. Tall, still, ancient.
The Guide stood straighter now, their hand slowly lowering from the tree. "It has begun," they murmured.
"The boundary between what was sealed and what remains, is thinning."
Cira took a slow step back toward Elian. "What did it mean? He remembers… Who said that?"
But Elian didn't answer. His expression had changed—not fear, not pain, but something far more unsettling.
Recognition.
"I've heard that voice before," he said under his breath. "In my dreams. In the snow. It always follows after the golden eyes appear."
Cira frowned. "Is it him? The one with the golden eyes?"
The Guide nodded grimly. "Not him. Not entirely. That figure… it is not a being. It is the shape of what remains. A shadow cast by a memory too ancient to name."
Cira looked between them, her voice quiet. "Then what does it want with Elian?"
A pause.
"To finish what was started," the Guide said. "And perhaps… to undo what should never have been done."
The clearing grew colder.
Without another word, the Guide motioned for them to move again, leading them deeper beyond the tree's roots, into a cavern-like hollow formed by hanging branches and shimmering ivy. The path narrowed, and time felt like it unraveled, curling between mossy stones and puddles that reflected not the sky—but memories.
One of them flickered as Cira passed: a vision of her younger self, sitting beneath a tree with a sketchbook in her lap. Alone. Laughing softly. Drawing a strange spiral symbol she'd dreamed about the night before.
She froze.
"That—" she began.
"Your soul remembers even when your mind forgets," the Guide said softly behind her. "This is not a coincidence. It never was."
They stopped at a small pool, no larger than a basin, nestled between the roots of the trees. The water was still. Perfectly still. And when Elian looked into it—
He saw himself. But not as he was now.
He saw a boy cloaked in frost and shadow, staring at the same pool with fear in his eyes. Behind him, a woman's silhouette flickered—a familiar one. Her hand rested on his shoulder in comfort.
But then her face changed.
Cold.
Distant.
Terrified.
She looked at him not like a son.
But like something cursed.
Elian stumbled back, nearly knocking into Cira.
She caught his arm. "Elian—what did you see?"
He didn't speak.
But the tears in his eyes answered.
"I think… I just saw my mother."
The Guide crouched by the pool and touched the surface. Ripples spread, distorting the reflection.
"She once promised to protect you," they said, as if reading from an invisible script. "But even those who love us can fear what they do not understand. She did not know how to carry your truth."
Cira felt something twist inside her.
Elian had always looked so composed, so quiet. But now he stood like a boy unraveling.
She stepped closer. "We don't have to keep going today—"
But he stopped her with a single glance.
"I need to know," he said, voice rough. "Even if it breaks me."
The Guide straightened. "Then you must follow me to the final place. The grove where the memory was first divided. Only there can it begin to return."
Cira looked to Elian—and silently, he nodded. They walked again.
The forest grew darker, not with night, but with memory.
The trees whispered, but the words made no sense.
And somewhere in the distance…
Golden eyes opened.
Watching.
Waiting.
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